—I’ve spoken with your father, the Bishop told him over tea.
Morgan was finding it difficult to eat, and this announcement made him sharply queasy. The Bishop explained that arrangements had been made for Morgan to go up to London the next morning. His father would expect him in the afternoon.
—But … I’m not sorted out yet.
The Bishop’s mouth twitched in a way that had become familiar. Their chats had continued regularly but had not repeated the freakish agony of those first days. Morgan had even ceased to think of them as moral interviews. Life with the Bishop had come to seem ordinary, as if Morgan were a young relation spending summer weeks at the Rectory whilst getting on with his project at the village school.
They had spoken several times of Silk, of Spaulding and Alex, Nathan and Laurie, of Grieves, of Morgan’s father, and, when he could stand it, his mother. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of the fortnight had been Droit’s absence. At first Morgan had expected him, but now, listening to the Bishop tell him he was to return to London, Morgan realized he hadn’t thought of Droit in some time.
—These things take time, the Bishop replied cryptically.
Would sorting him out take more time than the Bishop was at liberty to give? Or did he mean that Morgan’s case was too stubborn to resolve? Or that it had ceased to interest him? Alarm quickly gave way to shame at having taken advantage of the Bishop’s hospitality for so long. Who was he to grow comfortable there? The Bishop had already done him more favors than he could ever repay. How dare he feel … orphaned?
—I’ll organize my things.
—Mrs. Hallows will sort all that, the Bishop said.
They wanted to be rid of him that desperately.
Somehow he managed to carry on a light conversation, relating what details he could bear from the fete. As soon as possible, he pled exhaustion and fled to his room.
Outside the door, his throat clutched. If he went inside, he would lose his composure; what’s more, he sensed something sickening awaited him. He dashed into the room only long enough to retrieve a packet of cigarettes from the lining of his tuck box. Avoiding the Bishop, he escaped the house.
Down at the canal, he lit his first cigarette in more than a fortnight and inhaled to the bottom of his lungs. His veins opened. Blood flowed. He struck out down the towpath, raising his heart rate, stockpiling weapons against … whatever. By the time he returned to the Rectory, he was older, stronger, more capable.
Perched on the mooring, William smoked a cheroot. Morgan took his last cigarette from the pack.
—Got a light?
William, surprised in thought, felt for his matches. A smile squared his chin in a way that made Morgan feel someone had thrown a lance through his chest. He touched William’s hand as the flame touched his cigarette.
They smoked. Morgan deliberately failed to look away. He smoked down to the last sliver, so close it singed his lips. Cut grass clung to William’s trouser cuffs.
Morgan smiled. William flicked the end of his cheroot into the canal.
Morgan put his hands in his pockets. William put his hands in his pockets. They walked to the next footbridge. The grass there was overgrown, the Rectory far behind. William led him under the archway. Mind nettles was all he said.
His cock was astonishing.
Afterwards they had nothing to smoke. They lay under the footbridge and watched the light play on the water. Morgan’s head spun without the aid of drink. The air was warm, birdsong filled it, and the sun acted as though setting could not be rushed one cubit. Superb surprise, and a restoration of how things ought to be: languid, sated, so gorgeous one could weep.
* * *
The Bishop was sitting in the summerhouse when he returned.
—I thought you’d gone to bed, the man said.
—I took a walk.
The sun had dipped below the canal. The Bishop got unsteadily to his feet:
—I’ll make my goodbyes now. My son will collect you early.
—Dr. Sebastian? But I thought …
The Bishop looked as though he were making an effort to drag himself back from somewhere distant.
—I see I’ve left things out again. Term ended today, and as he’s going up to town tomorrow, he offered to accompany you.
—I can go myself.
—Nevertheless.
Gorgeousness had fled, and the sour bars closed again.
—Will you sit, the Bishop asked, and permit me to bless you?
Morgan wished to do no such thing, but he lowered himself into the chair the Bishop had abandoned. Then the Bishop’s hand was on his head, transmitting that horrible paternal rope, which had ensnared Morgan since his arrival. It was essential to pull himself together. Momentarily the man would release him. He had not to dwell on what was happening.
—Godspeed, Morgan.
—Thank you, sir.
A monstrously insufficient thing to say, but later when he’d recovered himself, he would write a letter thanking the man properly. Just now, such things were beyond him.
The Bishop went to bed. Morgan went to the drawing room and poured himself a measure of whiskey.
Four fingers later, his composure returned. He didn’t fancy the bedroom, but he couldn’t sleep downstairs, not with Mrs. Hallows charged with waking him at who-knew-what hour. He filled the glass to the rim and took it along to fortify himself.
Droit fell into step beside him:
—Don’t panic. We’ll sort it out. Lucky the old scarab has decent whiskey.
—Yes, Morgan said, weaving slightly.
—Just leave it to me.
Morgan wasn’t sure what Droit wanted left to him, but it sounded reasonable to leave things to someone else. He threw back the rest of the whiskey, stripped, and dove under the covers, where a spinning oblivion took him.